<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Getting to Know the Moon by Brokenjaw (Vrael)</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29553570">Getting to Know the Moon</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrael/pseuds/Brokenjaw'>Brokenjaw (Vrael)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Lucifer (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - The Modern Faerie Tales Fusion, F/M, Face-Fucking, Fae!Lucifer, Fuckruary 2021 (Lucifer TV), Porn With Plot, Teratophilia, You know my usual suspects because lord knows I only write one thing ever, size queen, taking the language of flowers to new depths of depravity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 20:46:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,433</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29553570</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrael/pseuds/Brokenjaw</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Her stranger tastes like honey, and cream, and thick, dark tea.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>190</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Over hill, over dale, </p><p>Thorough bush, thorough brier, </p><p>Over park, over pale, </p><p>Thorough flood, thorough fire! </p><p>I do wander everywhere, </p><p>Swifter than the moon's sphere; </p><p>And I serve the Fairy Queen, </p><p>To dew her orbs upon the green; </p><p>The cowslips tall her pensioners be; </p><p>In their gold coats spots you see; </p><p>Those be rubies, fairy favours; </p><p>In those freckles live their savours; </p><p>I must go seek some dewdrops here, </p><p>And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear."</p><p>-William Shakespeare</p><p>
  <strong>PART I.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Fear, Secrets, and the space between.</strong>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>It is a silly, embarrassing tradition, but one Chloe keeps nonetheless. </p><p>Every night, without fail, she leaves an offering to the Fae on her humble back porch. </p><p>A thimble full of honey, a dollop of fresh cream soaking into a Costco paper plate. And parmesan rinds, and grapes, and some tea in a chipped china cup, and a handful of sugar cubes. </p><p>She also leaves a drop of whisky in a bottle cap, for good measure—just in case Faeries drink.</p><p>Her placement of the arrangement is careful and always the same. She sets up her Faerie meal on the edge of the deck to the point it almost teeters on the back step. It sits the farthest it can be from the back door of the apartment without spilling into the grass below. Her willing oblation is an acknowledgement, but not an invitation. She makes sure the distinction is clear.</p><p>Chloe tells no one. Not her daughter. Not her ex-husband. </p><p>And there’s not enough money on God’s green earth that could compel her to explain this nonsense to a therapist. Linda would have a field day getting her to explain why she both courts this kind of make believe, and fears it all the same. Why she leaves scraps for rats at best, and nightmares at worst. </p><p>So it’s a secret she carries close to her chest, like a golden necklace. </p><p>Or, perhaps, a bullet, slowly worrying it’s way into her heart.</p><p> </p><p>___________________________________</p><p> </p><p>Chloe blames her grandmother. </p><p>She blames those late night stories of careless knights and rude little girls, gobbled up by thorns and teeth, poisons and curses. There are wolves in the forest and worse, if ancient Beatrice Decker was to be believed. </p><p>Ten-year-old Chloe was told tales of ogres with long, gangrenous claws, of pixies that delight in the taste of marrow, of Redcaps whose hats are stiff with dried blood. She had picture books about Kelpies who drown naive young girls. Kings and Queens, Seelie and Unseelie, Dark and Light, who delight in tricking mortals into their thrall with riddles and false promises. </p><p>And then there was the nastiest of them all, the most wicked. The Erlking.</p><p>According to legend, according to her grandmother, the Erlking is the Devil of the forest Fae. A monster that all these horrible and horrid creatures fear the most. Their very own Satan. He, or it, is a pitiless, tireless abomination who ensnares both humans and Faeries alike. It is an ever hungering spirit that feeds on desire, jealousy, or lust for revenge. And when it's almost full to groaning, and fat on his victim’s souls, it lets them go. They shamble off as husks of their former selves. Death is a preferable fate.</p><p>And sometimes, though not always, it prefers the lonely. People like her. They taste more toothsome, or so it was said. </p><p>Chloe is an adult now, no longer a child in a big and empty old house. </p><p>She is a detective, a mother and much else besides. She pays rent. She has a car. And a gun. There's no reason for these things, these stories, and these images to stick to her—gifted by Grandma Beatrice or not. But fear, fear has always stuck fast to Chloe’s spine. She slips into it, like a tight pair of handcuffs somedays and a shirt two sizes too big on others.</p><p> </p><p>___________________________________</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Every morning, the plates, the thimbles, the teacups, and the bottle caps she leaves all come back clean. </p><p>And oh, the fear digs tightly around her wrists. It clips her bones like polished steel.</p><p>Dutifully, she takes the dishes back inside, and dumps them in Dawn and sink water, even if they are, in fact, spotless. Chloe tells herself they are covered in insects, or muddy paw prints. But they are not. They smell like roses, and lavender, sweet earth and rain. There’s no stickiness or even a speck of dirt.</p><p>Fortunately, there’s only so many mental hula hoops her brain can dance with. She wriggles her wrists against the cuffs and they pop free. Her fears are replaced by other anxieties. Taxes. The power bill. Alimony. Softer worries that she can wear outside in public.</p><p>Chloe Decker, a Detective of the LAPD, does not question. She doesn’t want to know the answer.</p><p> </p><p>___________________________________</p><p> </p><p>But Chloe also dreams.</p><p>And there is a man who stalks her nights. </p><p>He is both familiar and not. </p><p> </p><p>___________________________________</p><p> </p><p>He’s a feeling more than an image. </p><p>The silk swell of a well made suit. The scruff of a short, well kept beard brushing against her neck. She drinks in the aroma of rich, heady smoke, like the sweetness of a campfire. Her stranger tastes like honey, and cream, and thick, dark tea. And like parmesan rind, and grapes, and sugar cubes, and whiskey. His eyes are liquid amber and embers, molasses, and burnt sticky caramel. And oh, she takes him between her teeth, sucks, nibbles, a hard candy worth savoring. </p><p>His lips move, slowly against the inside of her legs. His teeth and tongue whisper silent promises, letters and consonants that will never become words. Fingers, graceful and with practiced ease trace her folds, meander along the crease of her thighs—both teasing and knowing. And when he places his mouth at her core, she claws at his soft hair, urging, pressing. This man licks the life out of her, like it's the sweetest nectar.  He takes all her desire, all her want, all her longing and leaves her with nothing– because in his grasp she feels full, replete. There isn't a single thing she needs.</p><p>And what’s more, she gives as good as she gets. She might not know the complete set of his jaw. She might not know what his voice sounds like when it wraps around her name. But she does know what he looks like when he comes apart. She knows what he sounds like completely and utterly fucked. </p><p>Because it's her, because it’s her dreams, and she’s in control. Chloe rides her stranger into the mattress until he's sobbing at her neck for release. She steals away every cashmere inch of him between her legs and until she takes something from him too. He’s pliant beneath her fingertips, sweatslicked and adoring. She might not know his name, but she knows the shape of him, like she knows the sun at sunrise, or the ridges of her badge beneath her palms. </p><p>He is another secret. A ring she twists on a metaphorical finger. A diamond, great and black that she can hold close, as much as she chooses.</p><p> </p><p>___________________________________</p><p> </p><p>Every morning Chloe wakes alone.</p><p>She’s wet between her legs and tangled deep into her sheets. Bruises bloom on her throat, her thighs—but those are from car dings and clumsiness. </p><p>Her alarm clock is a red and unkind smear in the darkness. It is not the sun and certainly not the smile of a man who loves her. </p><p>Her showers are boiling, and her hair is pulled back savagely tight.</p><p>There are pancakes to make, and coffee to brew. Trixie’s hair is brushed into cute little pigtails, her little backpack is stuffed to the brim with folders of homework and bagged lunches. Chloe’s own paperwork is swept into a bedraggled and cracking briefcase. </p><p>Her routine is like an old, worn sweater; comfortable until the seams give out.</p><p> </p><p>___________________________________</p><p> </p><p>Only.</p><p>Only, there’s something else amiss. It’s not a sweater, or handcuffs, or a ring, or a shirt. It’s not a necklace or a bullet. It’s not a secret. Or a fear. </p><p>It’s something else entirely. And the shape of it, Chloe has yet to name. </p><p> </p><p>___________________________________</p><p> </p><p>Every single morning, on her way out to the car, Chloe almost trips over a bundle of cowslips. A bouquet of tiny, yellow flowers. They’re like daffodils but infinitely more delicate. Rain, or heat, or smog, they are there; perfect and glittering with dew. </p><p>It’s a non native plant, (she googled it on her phone) so either it’s from someone’s nearby garden or a local florist. She has Ella analyze them in the lab for poison, or prints—but she finds neither. Not a trace of how they came to be. Her Nest cam is equally unhelpful.</p><p>Chloe has her suspicions. It could be some local kids. It could be her ex-husband (as much as he denies it). It could be a stalker. </p><p>But weeks turn into months, and years, but no one makes their intentions known—for good, or for ill.</p><p>And so, Chloe, a Detective of the LAPD, decides not to question.</p><p>She doesn’t not want to know the answer to this either. </p><p> </p><p>___________________________________</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Part II.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Stumbling in the Thorny Dark</b>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It’s a rainy day in Los Angeles when it happens. Rare, fat raindrops splatter against the windows. The parched earth drinks and drinks and drinks, until miraculously, puddles begin to form.</p><p>The clock in the kitchen reads little after 10am, and Chloe is dutifully washing the dishes. There’s leftover bacon on the counter from a Saturday morning breakfast. Tacky syrup still sticks to her fingertips. The TV in the next room fizzles out the news.</p><p>Trixie stomps around in the backyard, just by the cluster of trees that mark the edge of the rental property. Her daughter is honoring the long cherished kid tradition of puddle jumping, and it’s been so long since her last romp. She’s decked in her little yellow rain boots and flower patterned slicker, with two Barbie dolls clenched in her tiny fists.</p><p>Chloe, of course, watches her through the kitchen window. She tries not to helicopter parent too much, but still, she worries. The yard is fenced in, save for that small portion of trees—but Trixie could still fall. Or slip. Or decide she would like to go barefoot. </p><p>And…it looks like she has a new friend?</p><p>There’s a little girl, around Trixie’s age—watching, smiling from the nearest tree. She’s beautiful, in a way a little girl in the rain should very much not be. Dry, golden hair, and pale skin without a flack of mud.  A beautiful, clean, cream colored dress edged with lace. She holds out her hand, saying something Chloe can’t hear.</p><p>Chloe stops washing the dishes, and watches intently— eyes glued to them both. Her stomach churns with a feeling she later recognizes as dread. Dark, and deep and burning.</p><p>Trixie shakes her head, taking a step backwards towards the house.</p><p>The little girl smiles wider, holding both of Trixie’s dolls in her hands. A magic trick, surely. And a good one because Chloe can’t tell how she did it. Her daughter reaches for it.</p><p>And then they both disappear.</p><p> </p><p>___________________________________</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Chloe doesn’t call the police. She is the police. And she also knows better.</p><p>She does some frantic Google searching, some digging through her Grandmother’s old books and then she stands at the tree line for hours. Gun in hand.</p><p>“Where is Trixie?” She calls over and over again, like a mad woman. Where is my daughter?”</p><p> </p><p>___________________________________</p><p> </p><p>Around three in the afternoon—a man appears from behind a tree.</p><p>Chloe’s own throat is raw from screaming.</p><p>“Yes, yes,” He says, with a voice soft, and rich—thick with a bored British accent. “I can hear you.”</p><p>The stranger is tall, at least 6’2, and wears a well tailored suit with perfect, polished shoes. The shape of his lithe body is both achingly and terribly familiar, somehow. He is not young. Or old. But his very appearance is so completely incongruous with the environment around him that he must be Fae. He must be, because Chloe sees no other alternative. </p><p>He strides forward with obnoxious confidence, arrogance in every step.</p><p>“You know,” he leers at her, without so much as a preamble. “You look familiar, have we met before?”</p><p>They have not met before. She would remember the perfect stubble, the perfect brows, and the perfectly coiffed dark hair. She would recognize the tarry black eyes lined with kohl. She wouldn't have forgotten the curved aquiline nose, or the blindingly white smile that could put magazines and photoshop to shame. </p><p>“Give her back,” Chloe growls.</p><p>“Making demands are we?” He makes a tutting noise. “You humans. No manners. And we haven’t even been formally introduced yet.”</p><p>“Detective Chloe Decker of the LAPD.” She rests her fingers on the trigger.  “Where is Trixie? Where is my child?”</p><p>“Well, Detective, the first thing you should know is that names have power. And you, my dear should be careful about who you give yours to.” He pauses, as if rolling his tongue over something particularly succulent. “Chloe. But you can call me Lucifer. Lucifer Morningstar, at your service.”</p><p>“Like…the Devil.”</p><p>“That's right. The very same.” He holds out his hand, welcoming her to shake it.</p><p>Chloe takes a step forward, and doesn’t dare return the gesture. “Noted,” she says as steadily as she can manage.</p><p>Lucifer steps forward as well, smoothly, like water snaking down a windowpane. “Now are you sure that we haven’t met? I could swear I’ve seen you naked. Have we had sex?” Lucifer’s grin is all teeth and no charm. Serpentine.</p><p>Her anger flares hot. Molten. “I’m worried about my daughter, and all you can think about is sex. Like this is a fucking game. The absolute fucking balls on you.”</p><p>“I assure you, they’re quite average-“ The Faerie man makes a lewd grab for his package.</p><p>“Okay, that’s it. We’re done here.” She’s not prepared to negotiate with some horny modern Jareth for her kid. Not when she’s armed and clearly not a teenager from the eighties.</p><p>She lifts her gun, but Lucifer lifts his palms.</p><p>“Wait, wait, wait,” he hastens to amend. “You came to bargain didn’t you?</p><p>Her finger tightens on the trigger. “Yeah, and I’m thinking my Glock might be more efficient.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t do that, Detective.”</p><p>“Oh and why not?”</p><p>Lucifer is suddenly behind her. “Because bullets don’t work on me. And I do not have your urchin.” He whispers into her ear. “But I do know who does.”</p><p>Chloe whips around, pressing the barrel against his chest. “And how do I know you’re telling the truth?”</p><p>“Because Faeries can’t lie.” He backs away smoothly. “But you mentioned a bargain, yes? And I find I am in the mood to accept. So tell me, as a formality, what precisely do you desire?”</p><p>“Like I said, I want Trixie back-“  </p><p>He makes a motion to elaborate.</p><p>“To the mortal world, like none of this had ever happened. And that she stays, and lives a normal life, and grows old.”</p><p>“Ah, very good, Detective. Well worded. And what do you offer in exchange?” </p><p>“Anything.”</p><p>Lucifer sighs and shakes his head. “Then a third piece of advice, never offer creatures like me a blank check. I could take the color of your hair, years of your life, the pleasure of sunshine, or the very hand from your wrist. Some others, of less refined taste would ask for your firstborn, if of course, she wasn't already missing.”</p><p>“Then…what do you want?” Chloe doesn’t really have much to offer.</p><p>“Hm, in exchange for getting your urchin back safe and sound? How about a favor then. Nothing complex, and nothing deadly or dastardly, you have my word.”</p><p>“What kind of favor?”</p><p>“To be named at the time and place I wish to invoke it.”</p><p>It reeks of a trap, but she has no other choice really. </p><p>She extends her hand.  “It’s a deal.” </p><p>Lucifer takes it. This skin on his hands is soft, like calf leather.</p><p>It occurs to Chloe, a bit belatedly, and a bit suddenly, that this Lucifer might be a little kind. </p><p>Yes, a bit of a jerk, but kind. </p><p>He didn’t have to appear to her. And he certainly didn’t have to tell her the rules of dealing with his ilk. He could have taken everything from her, just because she’s desperate. But he hasn’t so far.</p><p>Her gaze narrows. “Why are you helping me?” </p><p>“Because, Detective, I look after what’s mine,” he says, and presses an old bottle cap into her empty hand. </p><p> </p><p>___________________________________</p><p> </p><p>Chloe doesn’t have much stuff with her. She only has her gun, the clothes on her back, and an old umbrella. But qQuick as a blink, Lucifer takes her hand, bottle cap and all, and yanks her across the tree line. </p><p>She yelps. The warmth of his hands is a surprise. “What are you doing?”</p><p>He stares placidly back at her, unmoved.  “Getting your urchin back safe and sound, with your help. I don’t have a claim on her, but you do.”</p><p>“Let me go.” Chloe twists in his grip.</p><p>Lucifer doesn’t let go and the very blackness of his eyes could swallow worlds. “I’m taking you to the Queen of the Fae,” he says. “That’s the only way we can get your daughter back. By asking her to command her return. She was taken by one of her court. You are to follow me, and not leave my line of sight. Do not eat or drink anything anyone gives you, unless it is me. And even so, be cautious. My Glamour is difficult to replicate, but not impossible. Look for things that might be different.”</p><p>Chloe huffs. “Glamour?”</p><p>“What you see is an illusion. And much more than myself can be. Places, objects, people, and even sensations. It is what we Fae do and excel at. We cannot lie with our mouths, but in exchange we can lie with our very being.”</p><p>His black suit shifts to purple, to blue, to green, and then to black again, with a little red pocket square.</p><p>“Do you understand me?” he asks, letting her go</p><p>She nods with an indignant rub at her wrist. “Sure.”</p><p>Lucifer shows a hint of teeth. An irritated smile. “Then we are agreed. Good.”</p><p>It's only when Chloe looks away from his face that she notices it’s stopped raining. Or well, inside the tree boundary it’s stopped raining. She can still see her apartment getting absolutely drenched. There is a clear division between where she is, and where she has once been. A boundary between realms. </p><p>Her Faerie companion curiously peers at her, as if she were some alien bird with six heads. “We should get going."</p><p>He turns to walk ahead, facing a great and dark wood. It yawns before them—large, and leviathan. The trees are tall, and thick and dark. They look like old growth redwoods, with jagged leaves that say they aren’t, in fact, redwoods.  By all accounts, they shouldn’t be there. By all accounts, it shouldn’t really be a forest. If you were to look on a map (and Chloe very much had) it should be a simple cluster of Japanese maples that divided one development from the next.</p><p>The skin beneath her jacket prickles with static and apprehension.  </p><p>They weren’t in L.A. anymore. </p><p>She stifles the impulse to click her heels three times, and follows.</p><p> </p><p>___________________________________</p><p> </p><p>The remainder of day unfolds both spectacularly and oddly unspectacularly. </p><p>Unspectacular, in the fact that there’s raccoons, and the pinprick eyes of possums. Rocks, and dirt. Sticks wedge themselves into her boots. Sparrows hop and dance in the canopy above them. Tiny creatures with sweet tooths and sticky segmented legs sip at tree trunks that leak sap. There’s birdsong, and red capped mushrooms, and the crunching of bark and mulch. It’s much like a hike with a strange man in a suit, at least in some ways, with all the sweat and grime involved.</p><p>But in other, more spectacular ways, the journey could not be more different. </p><p>A pathway unfolds just as Lucifer steps forward—trees part like nightclub guests before a club owner. Leaves, branches and fronds never even so much as scrape her leather jacket, but when Chloe looks behind them there’s only dense foliage, as if the trees had never moved at all. </p><p>Strange tracks also haunt their steps. </p><p>One, in particular and foremost, stands out, because Chloe almost trips on it. The pattern almost looks like a dinosaur footprint, with three hooked claws in the front; and one in the back. Each print is about the size of a dinner plate, perhaps a bigger, and disturbingly fresh. The crisp outlines are unworn by time or weather. There are paws too. Claws. But Chloe shivers at the thought of that beast, and how it’s probably stalking them from a place she can’t see.</p><p>Instead, she shifts her focus to other places. Better places.</p><p>Fireflies flit in and out of tangled, moss covered vines—almost like moths about to take flight for courtship with the nearest streetlight. Only, Chloe can’t really see them. They’re always in the corner of her vision, and she can never quite catch them with her full gaze. Little frogs, like little gemstones, hop across the undergrowth with every step she takes—and far off is this growling deep and humming base. Music, but deep and shaking. It’s like she’s outside of some sort of music venue but never quite in it. </p><p>Flowers choke everything. Rocks, logs, and trees. Everything is in blossom with flowers she’s never seen before and can’t rightly name. The air is thick with sweetness, mist and pollen. She can smell lavender, citrus, woodsmoke, roses, and damp, wet earth. It’s cloying and seductive. </p><p>And through it all, every so often, Lucifer glances back at her—with an expression difficult to read. Almost longing. But for what? He could just ask, or take. It’s not like she’s in a position to refuse. </p><p>And it doesn’t help that in the half light, his eyes sometimes flicker red. Tapetum lucidum, she supposes. He’s a predator, even if at the moment he doesn’t look like one.</p><p> </p><p>___________________________________</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll rest here for the night,” Lucifer says finally. “The Court travels, and by my estimation we’re a day's walk out from the current camp.”</p><p>They must have walked miles. Chloe’s watch no longer works, as both of its hands are mysteriously glued to noon, but it’s certainly felt like at least nine hours. Even if Lucifer doesn’t have a hair or crease out of place, her own body is tacky with sweat. She knows by the ache of her feet and the tense horrible knot growing in the middle of her back.</p><p>Chloe groans.</p><p>“Detective,” Lucifer eyes her, still fresh as a daisy. “I could carry you, tomorrow, if you’d prefer.”</p><p>“Yeah, over my dead body,” Chloe grumbles.</p><p>Her Faerie guide looks wounded. “I’m only trying to help, you know. I won’t carry you to anywhere untoward. Scout’s honor.”</p><p>“Mhm, sure.” And his definition of untoward could be quite different than her own. “It’s just...I don’t have a sleeping bag, now do I?”</p><p>Lucifer pulls a crooked, dirty smile. “You’re welcome to sleep on me, Detective. Or with me.”</p><p>“Are all Faeries this horny or are you the exception?”</p><p>He slides downwards against the trunk of a tree, sitting at its base. “Oh Darling, I’m always the exception. The offer’s always on the table. But if you aren’t a taker, the ground here is soft. Softer than most of your Tempurpedic nonsense at any rate. And I’m sure you’ve noticed, but it’s not like the weather dictates you’ll need a blanket.”</p><p>She finds he’s right. The evening is downright balmy. Spookily, so.</p><p>Chloe pads her way to her own tree and nestles herself amongst a thresh of fluffy ferns. It’s comfortable as comfortable can’t get in the middle of the bum-fuck magical woods. Still, she rests her fingers on her holster. </p><p>It’s not long until sleep overtakes her.</p><p> </p><p>___________________________________</p><p> </p><p>“Psssst.”</p><p>A face hovers above her own, with walnut skin and eyes as black as beetles. </p><p>“Pssssst, human!” It hisses again. Through Chloe’s slitted eyes she can see that it's female, with sharply pointed teeth, lush lips, and a severely angled haircut. “What’s your name?”</p><p>Chloe jerks upward from her supine position and jams her gun underneath the stranger’s jaw. “No one important. Yourself?”</p><p>It’s a Pixie. Or something very close to one. From this angle Chloe can make out shredded, violet wings, velvety enough that they turn to pitch in shadow. Ears, jutt like knife tips and poke through silken, dark hair. The Faerie woman is small, but corded with muscle, and encased in skintight leather. She is beautiful. But also, very much not.</p><p>“Oh, you’re a smart human. You may call me Mazikeen.” She grins, wicked and wide. “And because you’re so clever, I’ll offer you a boon for free. Some good advice.” With one hand the Faerie squeezes the trigger. </p><p>Chloe’s gun fires, the shot is muffled by flesh, but Mazikeen doesn't even flinch. </p><p>“Right,” Chloe mumbles.</p><p>“You should run,” says the Pixie, winking. “How can you be so sure Lucifer didn’t trick you?”</p><p>Something about how she both knows and says Lucifer’s name gives her pause. Like an old friend who owes money. Or favors. Or perhaps an ex. But Chloe stoically ignores the implication.</p><p>“And how can I be so sure you’re not doing the same?” She replies. </p><p>Mazikeen smiles, her lips stretching unnaturally from ear to ear. “Your pal over there is the Erlking. But you knew that right?”</p><p>Chloe’s very human heart stops dead in its tracks. </p><p>“Oh, you didn’t?” Mazikeen feigns innocence. “Well, you know what they say about the Erlking. He’s the Devil himself. Or even worse, perhaps. At least the Devil plays fair. But the Erlking, well, he’ll steal your soul and leave you with nothing left when you’re not even looking. You didn’t make a deal with him, did you?”</p><p>Oh fuck.</p><p>Oh fucking fuck. </p><p>It made sense in a way. Poetically. </p><p>Chloe is, was, and has always been an uncareful little girl pretending to be an adult. She’s so fucking stupid, taking help from the first strange creature to step into her backyard. She was exactly the person her Grandmother tried to warn her from being, taken in by a few kind words and helpful sentences. All the lessons, all the books, all the stories were useless after all. The offerings were foolishness and fancy. </p><p>The Pixie’s mouth twists even further, almost obscene. Her pointed teeth are bared, revealing rows, upon rows, upon rows. “Oh, so you did. What did he promise you? Fame? Fortune” She licks the air like the edge of a blade. “Your daughter back? </p><p>Chloe can only numbly nod. </p><p>“That’s what the Erlking does. He finds humans and Fae at their most vulnerable and snaps them up. Yum yum. Your loneliness, your desperation is a nectar sweeter than honey.” Mazikeen’s face shifts a bit, showing a very small portion of pity. “Run. Run away little human, before it's too late.”</p><p> </p><p>___________________________________</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>So Chloe runs. As instructed.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>___________________________________</p><p> </p><p>It’s very dark, and incredibly hard to see. Chloe had absolutely no idea where she's going and the foliage is so thick that, without Lucifer as her guide, thorns tear at her skin and jacket. The music that was once far away sounds closer, frenetic in its intensity. Eyeshines gleam in the black, large and every watchful stars. It gives her goosebumps knowing what lurks beyond her field of vision.</p><p>But still she runs. Through briars, sharp stones, and many imagined dangers. She doesn’t know how far, or fast she runs—but the more distance between her and the Erlking, the better. Her lungs burn. Her stomach cramps. Every footfall feels like stepping on hot pokers. And oh, she misses Trixie with all her heart. Chloe would give anything, anything at all to have her back in her arms.</p><p>___________________________________</p><p> </p><p>And just about when she has nothing to give left, Chloe hits a small clearing. </p><p>Or, more accurately, a meadow. </p><p>The gap in the woods is awash in moonlight, turning its lush grass silver. Bluebells stir in a gentle and warm breeze. There are daisies, buttercups, poppies and marigolds. The whole scene looks like a Thomas Kinkade painting without the cottages. It's serene to an almost unsettling degree. </p><p>And in the meadow, less than twelve feet away, stands a white shape. It looks as if a deer, a horse, a donkey, and a goat had a supermodel baby. It’s mane flows pinkish purple in a nonexistent wind and pearly cloven hooves paw at the grass. There’s a singular bright horn in the middle of its forehead. A golden sickle winking in the moonlight.</p><p>It takes Chloe’s breath away.</p><p>A unicorn. An honest to God unicorn. Here. In front of her. It must be a sign. It must mean she’s saved. </p><p>Chloe takes a careful step forward, her hope high in her throat. A thousand different scenarios dance before her eyes. She could ride it out of the forest, or it could lead her to her daughter. Or even, help her defeat the great Erlking who tricked her. </p><p>“Detective, back away. Slowly,” a soft voice says from behind her. </p><p>It’s Lucifer. The Erlking. Her betrayer. All caught up with her in no time at all. Her own fear could strangle her. But Chloe is not the child she once was. She can school her own nightmares into submission. </p><p>She moves closer to the meadow, defiant. “Why should I?”</p><p>“You have no idea how dangerous that creature is.” For the first time ever, Lucifer sounds panicked. He's no longer so self assured. His voice waivers like a violin with its strings pulled far too tight. </p><p>Chloe hesitates. “But it’s a unicorn.”</p><p>“And you're no virgin,” Lucifer quietly replies. </p><p>It’s then she notices it’s nostrils are flaring, and it’s eyes are the color of rubies. Saliva drips from a wide, fanged and gaping mouth.</p><p>Lucifer suddenly jumps in front of her, just as the Unicorn rams forward. It gores him, pinning him to the nearest tree.</p><p>“You idiot,” Chloe snarls, at herself—at Lucifer.</p><p>She doesn't know what to do. Guns, as two members of the Fae have previously established, won’t work. All she has is her stupid umbrella, folded and tucked away in her back pocket. But it’s better than nothing.</p><p>Chloe hits the button on the handle, and it extends like a police baton. With both her hands and all her strength she whaps it against the unicorn’s neck, as if it were a baseball bat. Flesh sizzles on contact, oozes, and melts. The unicorn screams and Lucifer shoves its face off of him, unpinning him from the tree.</p><p>“Iron,” he gasps. </p><p>The creature is already halfway across the meadow, bolting in the opposite direction, but Chloe can see a long welt on its longer throat—bleeding mercury.</p><p>“I could have sworn it was some cheap aluminum.”</p><p>“Well it's not.” Lucifer half moans, sliding into a crumpled heap. “Or at least not all of it. Lucky, lucky you.”</p><p>Chloe kneels next to him. “You saved me.”</p><p>“Unicorns,” he huffs. “Bloody prudes and slut-shamers, the lot of them. I can’t say their near extinction is a great loss.”</p><p>“Hold still.” Chloe’s hands run up his immaculate suit jacket. To her surprise she can’t find the entry wound. Or the exit. Her brow furrows.</p><p>“Don’t worry, you didn’t kill it,” Lucifer says, misunderstanding her consternation. “It just decided we weren’t worth the trouble.”</p><p>“No, it's-fine. Are you okay?”</p><p>The Erlking smiles, tight at the edges. “I’ll be right as rain soon enough. I might have a bit of a kip though. I’m knackered.”</p><p>The bottle cap Lucifer gave her is making an imprint in her left palm. Somehow, it found its way back into her hand. It has appeared there again, like magic, from nothingness. It reminds Chloe that she still has her suspicions, her doubts. </p><p> “You said I was yours. What did you mean by that?”</p><p>He gives her a hazy, lopsided smile. “I’m wounded, Detective. Have I not been useful so far?”  </p><p>“If you count getting skewered useful.”</p><p>“No, no.” He corrects her. “Before this.”</p><p>Chloe stares at him blankly. </p><p>“Haven’t you always noticed your coffee is a perfect temperature right when you sip it? Or there hasn’t been one mosquito inside your humble abode? Not once has your sticky offspring bumped a toe, or scraped her knobby little knees on the sidewalk. And I guarantee that you haven’t once broken a plate.” He shakes his head, comically dejected.  “Did you really think those flowers were from your ex-husband?”</p><p>She could swear half her brain is blaring Muzak at this point, for all the good it does her. “That was you?”</p><p>“Well, it certainly wasn’t Santa Claus.”</p><p>“You’re telling me I’ve been setting out snacks for the fucking Erlking?”</p><p>His shoulders fall. “You know?”</p><p>“A Pixie named Mazikeen told me.”</p><p>“I suppose that explains your break for it. Understandable,” he replies. “She’s been known to ruin the best of plans”</p><p>“Yep, that’s about the short and long of it.”</p><p>Lucifer sighs and offers his hand. To Chloe’s own surprise, she takes it.</p><p>“Detective, I’m on your side. You can trust me. You have my word. I might have a bit of a reputation, but isn’t that a good thing? Having the Devil at your beck and call?”</p><p>The look he gives her then, is so open, so hopeful, so sincere it could break her heart.</p><p>“But why me?” Something isn’t adding up here. “I’m no one special.”</p><p>“No one special? Preposterous,” he laughs. “Listen, and listen well. To me, your offerings were a banquet, food freely given. We Fae, when we are left on our own, cannot just take what we like. We either prey upon the weakness of others, or in my case…sometimes rats.” A brief flash of shame colors his features. “Without your charity, I would not have survived. How many gorgeous women in Los Angeles have a thimbleful of kindness, especially for a creature like me?”</p><p>“Is that why Trixie was taken? I saw her try to take something, a doll. From something that looked like a child.”</p><p>“It was not a child,” Lucifer confirms. “We Fae, do not enjoy debts. But some of us manipulate what we are owed and when.”</p><p>Chloe doesn’t know what to do with that information, but it tracks with her research at least.</p><p>“It was a mistake, on my part. I should have been watching her. You both are under my protection. But I cannot retrieve her without your help.” He winced adjusting his posture against the tree.  “Though I did try. It’s why you were waiting at the Boundary so long.”</p><p>“Why couldn’t you get her back?”</p><p>“Because, as I had said before, you have a claim. I do not. I’ve been banished from the Fae courts. All of them. I cannot return unless a boon or a debt compels me.”</p><p>It’s a lot to take in. All of it. And she’s still smack dab in the middle of Faerieland, with creatures both big and small who seem to make it their job to lead her astray. Or kill her. She’s frightened. Stressed out. And just desperate to get her kid and go home.</p><p>“Is…is the offer still on the table to sleep with you?” Chloe asks, before she can think better of it.</p><p>Lucifer’s expression turns wry. “Why yes-”</p><p> “And before you get the wrong idea, I mean sleep only.”</p><p>With a small groan he opens his arms, welcoming her to take whatever spot she wants. His eyes are soft, gentle. He looks at her like she stole the stars from the sky, wrapped them up, and placed them in his lap, like a present. It's a complete 180 from his previous haughty and naughty behavior. </p><p>“Oh, Detective. My brave, brave Detective. I’m ever at your service,” Lucifer replies.</p><p>He smells nice. Musky and warm. Hints of cedar, and skin, and something a little floral. Then smoke, and campfire. It’s familiar, very familiar, and tugs at the back of her brain like an itch. But she’s tired, and instead of another round of twenty questions, she worms her way carefully into his side.</p><p>“Thank you,” she mumbles against his shirt, letting her eyelids fall.</p><p>He kisses the top of her head. “I had rather hoped you liked the flowers.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Part III.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>A Nightmare Revealed</b>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe wakes up alone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her internal clock screams it should have been sunrise hours ago, but it’s still nighttime. And worse, the world around her has changed yet again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The moonlight, which was once a weak and waning thing, now shines full and bright and cold. The stars, what she can see of them, are no longer the Los Angeles pinholes, but a great carpet of glittering nebulae. She can see galaxies upon galaxies all tangled up in the sky like spilt milk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fear, insidious and sharp, settles itself like a cement block in her stomach.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe stands to take her bearings. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lucifer?” Her frightened, shaky voice slices the terrible quiet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Faerie forest is even stranger than before, and even more unfamiliar.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Every plant, every tree, and every vine glow with their own special light like terrible 90’s blacklight posters. Colors that were plain in the daylight are now venomous and ultraviolet. It’s a bioluminescent morass that her eyes can’t untangle. To see is to be lost; and to be lost is to see.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lucifer?” Chloe calls louder. “Lucifer</span>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Over here, Detective!” Her friend calls back, sounding perfectly unconcerned with this new development.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just follow the sound of my voice,” he says. “You’re perfectly safe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He isn't far away, if her ears aren't betraying her. The sound comes from the same direction as the subtle cackling of a steam, cascading somewhere nearby. The landscape is a confusing maze, but eventually she stumbles downhill toward the sound of his voice, past bushes of glowing wild strawberries, and fluorescent clusters of mushrooms. Down to a sticky, sility bank. Mud sucks at her boots.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“After earlier, it seemed like a good idea to have a bit of a cleanse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looks upward and there Lucifer stands, rail straight in the creek. The water only comes up to mid thigh, and it conceals absolutely nothing. He’s absolutely naked and Chloe has a full frontal view of all his tender bits. He’s completely flaccid and uncut, but, miraculously, that doesn't ruin the view. He’s large, and the playing field is neatly groomed, like the rest of him. He looks more like a sculpture in practice than pornography. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leans down and cups his hands, taking the water and splashing his shoulder, over and over. His face winces, as if some invisible wound still aches. The water sloshes downward, over the swell of freckled muscles and warm coppery skin. And lower, dripping off the length of his cock. He is beautiful and concise in his movements, making it clear his body was carved with both form and function in mind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You could join me, you know,” Lucifer says without even glancing upward. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe swallows, tearing her gaze away. “No, thank you. I’m good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> I'm sure of</span>
  <em>
    <span>,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Detective,” he leers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why—” She grasps at her conversational straws. “Why isn't the sun up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer raises an eyebrow. His smile is positively impish. “Did you really think Faerie had a twenty-four-hour day?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good point.” She relents, her hackles lowering somewhat. “I guess I don’t really know what to expect.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How about the unexpected?” Lucifer laughs. “That way, you’re never unprepared.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>___________________________________</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Time drifts past awkwardly. Lucifer is a very slow bather.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe’s own sense of self preservation wont let her leave, but her own embarrassment won’t let her stay. Water rushes past her feet, water that had once touched Lucifer’s very naked body. Profane little fish swim in the current, none the wiser.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you really sure I can’t persuade you?” Lucifer offers. “I could wash your back and all those hard to reach places.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe can’t help it, she returns her gaze. This time he’s staring at her. His eyes are soft, sad. Long, pianist hands rub at that spot again at his shoulder. Downstairs, he’s unsurprisingly half erect. Is there an adjective for mournful and horny? Chloe doesn’t know and doesn't want to find it, but she's sorely tempted all the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lucifer, I—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Brother!” A deep voice rings out. “You’ve returned!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Brother? A stone's throw away, at the edge of the riverbank, stands an exceptionally broad and dark man. He wears a white tunic, and from his back spring large, iridescently gray wings. They certainly don’t look related, but it's not the strangest thing she's seen or heard so far.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer wades out of the river, looking very much put upon. “Amenadiel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His brother smiles wide with barely constrained joy. “What brings the fearsome Erlking back from exile?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am here to ask for a boon from the High Queen on behalf of this human before you. She is under my protection,” Lucifer replies. “Detective, this is Amenadiel, my brother and Defender of the High Court.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amenadiel turns to face her, gaze flowing cooly over her body, as if he were assessing a prize mare and not a person. He does not ask her name or extend his hand. Instead, he claps Lucifer on his naked shoulder, ignoring her almost completely. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Erlking winces.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmmm. You know the rules, Luci. In order for outsiders to have an audience, one must have a request for themselves. Your ‘Detective’ has hers, but do you have yours?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer hesitates. Clearly this wasn’t part of the plan, but the moment the uncertainty resolves itself. “Fine. I will also request a boon from the High Queen for myself. Good enough?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His brother brightens. “It is acceptable. We are in the middle of a revel at the moment. The High Queen will see you after, so as to not interrupt the proceedings. However, you both will need to change.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He snaps his fingers and Chloe’s sweaty leather jacket and boots vanish. Or seem to. In their place is a periwinkle glittering dress that fades to midnight blue at the trim. It's not quite as bright as everything else around them, but it does emit its own sort of light. The soles of her feet are cradled with strappy heels that crawl up her calves like ivy, and her once messy ponytail comes loose to let her hair rest on her shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The outfit is nice, she supposes. Or would be, if it were voluntary. Only her better manners prevent her against fighting Amenadiel on it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer himself is no longer naked. Instead, he’s wearing a long coat in a green so dark it's almost black. The jacket looks both old fashioned and almost militia-like, with long bands of embroidery across the breast and two flapping coattails. Cream colored pants complete the ensemble and cut off at the knees, leaving the rest of his legs bare including his feet.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.” Lucifer snarls, catching his brother’s extended hand and taking from it a collar of glossy green leaves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know that without holly, your human charge is as good as dead in there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can protect her,” Lucifer argues venomously.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His brother solemnly shakes his head, unaffected. “Not from everything Luci. Not anymore.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Erlking looks furious, ready to scream. Chloe’s entire body shrinks away from his sudden pacing, huffing display. His once warm brown eyes flash predatory red, and perfectly white teeth gnash together in frustration. “I can’t let her do that. I can’t let her see.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then I can’t let her proceed,” Amenadiel folds his arms. “I might not like humans, but I like messes even less.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer punches the nearest tree, splinters flying, snapping it over like styrofoam. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, like that's going to help anything,” his brother huffs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seconds turn to minutes and the violent rise and fall of Lucifer's shoulders begin to soften. Breaths even out into a more reserved and polished cadence. The holly collar is still in his hands, fully intact, even though his grip on it is white knuckled. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And finally, after what seems to be an eternity of internal deliberation, he offers it to Chloe. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just don’t bloody scream,” he begs. “Please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe frowns. “Why would I scream?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Remember what I said about Glamour?” Lucifer asks softly. “This will let you see through it all, as long as you wear it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anguished eyes bore into hers, willing her to understand. They’re warm and brown again, with long eyelashes and pristinely groomed eyebrows. His lips are parted, showing off his perfectly angled cupid's bow. Their faces are so close they could almost kiss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She slides the holly necklace on, and her world one again changes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer changes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>___________________________________</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe blinks. And then blinks again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No longer does a handsome man stand in front of her. Instead, something different and without name replaces his shape.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He is…ugly. There’s no avoiding the fact. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His face is a gaunt, ravaged thing with sickly cream clot skin and cheekbones so sharp they could either cut broken glass or </span>
  <em>
    <span>be</span>
  </em>
  <span> broken glass. There’s little distinction. His once lush mouth is but a crimson slash of a wound, so savagely red it looks stained with gore. He appears as if he had just pressed his face into a freshly dead carcass and slurped down on flesh and gristle</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His nose isn’t a nose at all, but a crater. A skeletal hole marks where his nostrils would  be. A death's head countenance. One of headstones and nightmares. His body, while still muscular, now gangles. His humanly immodest 6’3ish stretches to well above seven feet. Claws click at his sides, belonging to longer hands that curl with extra digits. Below them rests an extra set of arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A shaky inhale rattles through the quiet. She can see why Lucifer’s confused with the Devil.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But there’s something beautiful about him too. Large elk horns curve upward from his forehead in a heavy crown, almost like oak branches—bone and shadow. An iridescent set of wings protrudes from his back, shredded, but the color of oil slick and raven's feathers. His eyes burn like campfire embers and the afterimages of lightning. Blood clots and fluorescent paint. The whole of him sears through the darkness brighter than any light Chloe has ever known. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer looks like he belongs among the trees, and the moss, and the toadstools. He looks like he is a king, able to run with the fleetest of deer and sup on the still beating hearts of foxes deep, deep in the woods. An otherworldly thing that stalks through forgotten meadows and drinks from pools ancient and cold.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And also, impossibly… he still looks like Lucifer. He holds himself the same. The line of him, the core. The gentle, funny companion that led her through the thorns, and offered her the bottle cap hasn’t changed at all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Chloe,” he says. Because that’s probably all he could say. There’s not many words for something like this. His mouth slithers across her name and all she can stare at is the white jagged teeth beneath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So...this is what you look like?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He recoils, abruptly looking elsewhere. The Fae cannot lie, so she takes it as both a ‘yes’…and possibly a ‘no’. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lucifer—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s then that she sees the stab wound from earlier, the oozing pit the unicorn left. It’s black with old blood, no longer hidden by half told lies and illusions. Her hand reaches out before she can stop herself—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t touch me.” His voice waivers, inhuman. Claws encircle her wrist, preventing her from making contact. “Please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His palm is still warm. If she closes her eyes, she imagines she wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference from before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Chloe says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lets go, and drops her hand as if she had burned him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>___________________________________</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She and Lucifer follow behind Amenadiel, through arches and bowers, through tunnels with looping brick pathways. Carefully twisted and braided terrain winds behind their heels, contorting backward on itself in a snakey ouroboros. Chloe’s magicked shoes snag on the uneven ground. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Parts of human civilization start to encroach a little at the edges. Patches of asphalt here. A crumpled park bench there. A stop sign covered in moss. An entire bus station, open and gaping to the elements—like an exposed tooth rife with decay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe tries not to glance at her companion, who looms at her back like a monstrous shadow. She avoids staring at his many arms, at his boney face, at his wings that drag behind him in a patchy cloak. But his stalking footprints echo loud, and her eyes snap and catch all too often.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She tries to focus instead on the forest ahead—which is now, suddenly, littered with people. The shadows are crowded with the cruel, reproachful eyes of ogres, goblins, redcaps, and pixies alike. If she had to guess at their impassive faces, they were probably always there; watching her, every step of the way. Chloe is a reluctant actor on a stage she can’t walk away from. And the further they travel, the more crowded the assembly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amenadiel, oblivious, breaks the silence. “Luci, you used to love parties, what happened?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is a party? The assembled congregation is as somber as a funeral. There’s barely anything party-like about the scene before them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The music is indeed louder than ever before, but very few Fae sway to the rhythm. A few tap dance on leaves, or slow grind into each other, but the remainder whisper behind closed hands or cackle openly in her direction.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know? Maybe it was the exile? Or being cursed beyond all recognition? Take your pick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should lighten up. Dance a little. It’s not like you to be so somber. It’s not every day you’re welcome back to the Court of the High Queen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Erlking’s large wings bristle. “I have my reasons.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, don’t tell me it’s the human. You might owe her this favor, but you don’t owe her your delight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer stops in his tracks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The three of them stand in the middle of a copse, and also a place that is, strangely, a night club. The tree bowers create a cathedral-like atrium. Wood, leather, and sheet metal give way to ferns and viridian blossoms. In the center, an impossibly tall ginkgo tree’s roots wrap around a disused grand piano. Little golden hoof-print leaves gild the keys</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s clear that they’ve arrived at their destination, even if Chloe was never sure what it could have looked like.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ve gone far enough. Amenadiel, leave us,” Lucifer growls. “You said the audience will happen when the revel concludes. I swear to be on my best behavior.  We do not need an escort.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amenadiel nods. “Very well. But don’t make me regret it. All right?” With that, Amenadiel melts into the gathering throng of Fae.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>___________________________________</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe, for her part, isn’t sure what to do. How long do parties last in Faerieland? It’s not like she can just mill about awkwardly with a red Solo cup in hand, or go hide in the bathroom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer approaches the piano and touches one of the keys. A long, mournful note echoes deep through the hollow hall. It's abundantly clear her once steadfast companion is keeping his distance. He wants absolutely nothing to do with her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She is alone and a stranger in a strange, strange land. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Detective, is it?” A small, corpulent gnome tugs on her sleeve. “What an interesting name.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” another says at her side. “How clever. You should come play with us. Leave your nasty, nasty friend.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We can offer you all sorts of diversions.” Another opens his jacket. “Drugs?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m okay,” Chloe declines. “But I do appreciate the offer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, this human has manners, how singular!” an elven little boy exclaims.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They all are crowding into her space, pushing and pulling. A hundred menacing faces, each eager for something from her. Something unkind. One, a large troll, begins to drag her towards a circle of buffet tables.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Enough!” Lucifer roars. His wings arch over her, like a protective umbrella. “She is mine. You will leave her be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The troll that had dared touch her is decapitated and slumped over on the floor. The crowd abruptly disperses, but they don’t go far, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>far enough</span>
  </em>
  <span> in Chloe’s opinion. They still linger, watching her from shadowed corners, or leer from behind their drinks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Belatedly, she realizes Amenadiel had taken her umbrella. She is, effectively, defenseless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Chloe,” Lucifer looks down at her, as if sensing her unease. “I know it might not look it, but it will be all right. You are safe with me.” A long, clawed hand carefully hers. “You always were.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you didn’t want me touching you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I can make an exception.” He twines his long fingers in hers. “If you’re amenable.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe’s stomach suddenly growls. Her eyes snap to the multiple tables piled high with food, in which a few goblins stand in line, fighting over their portions. The prospect of the buffet table is enticing, even beneath all her horror. Hunger worries at her, gnaws, as if she’s been days without food. She just might be, with the time differential. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer sighs. “I suppose we should get you some food, Detective.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hah! A human being hand fed by the Erkling? This I have to see,” a beautiful, and extremely unkind little woman says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The room titters with her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to, Lucifer. Really. “</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He eyes her warily. “I do. You won’t be able to eat safely any other way. Food taken by any other means would trap you here forever.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then why is it safe if it comes from your hands?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because it’s food freely given.” His mouth twists oddly. “Like grapes, and cheese rinds, and honey.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She doesn't know how to respond to that. She could argue that her gifts were never really meant for him. That his own kindness isn't owed. That generosity spurred by fear isn't any kind of generosity at all. But her argument is flypaper in her mouth. Every time she tries to say something her better judgment snaps her jaw shut like glue.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer, oblivious to her struggle, offers an arm and Chloe takes it. Another winds across her shoulders in a protective shield, effectively shuttering her away from the overtly inquisitive crowd. Like this, it’s almost easy to pretend he’s some handsome suitor at a party, and not some seven foot tall British Boogeyman guarding her from an entire host of mythical creatures.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But here, there are humans, too, Chloe finds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amidst the pointed ears and the sharp toothed sneers there are people, with people shaped proportions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They huddle the edge of the farthest banquet table, stuffing their faces with their hands. Their eyes are glazed over and foggy, like condensation on glass, and they shuffle about like zombies straight from a horror movie. Her instinct is to be taken aback by their round ears, and their business suits, and their t-shirts—but then her gaze travels to what they are, in fact, gobbling down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fetid, congealing vegetables and apples brown with slime. Slop, fuzzy with mold. Piles of wet, glistening muscle and long, knotted entrails. Rot, and ruin, and gore.  The leavings of greater Fae, left in a pile for their dogs to eat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer tracks her gaze, his own expression carefully impassive. “Human thralls. If it makes you feel better, they can’t really see what they’re eating. Or taste it. To them it looks as delicious as anything else here and they’re too drunk on magic to care.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is Trixie’s future if she fails. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She will be a pet snapping up scraps for Faerie entertainments.  Lucifer doesn’t even have to say it. Her previous hunger twists into unforgiving nausea and implodes on itself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer takes a plate for her with his other hands and begins to load it up. “Chicken. Not to worry, Detective,” he assures her. “And some sliced apples. Warm buns. Olives. Oatcakes. Pickled carrots. Nothing beneath your impeccable and distinguished tastes.” He swipes a glass and a carafe of wine as well, and no one dares gainsay him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he is satisfied with the selection, he guides her to a quiet table beneath a cloud of wisteria. He pulls out her chair, and then his limbs tangle together awkwardly as he takes his own seat across from her on a low, roughly hewn stool.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The band begins to play a few paces away—all fiddles, drums, harps, lutes and lyres. The sound carries, like bird song and bullets, but it’s still easy to hear the simmering din of gossip and conversation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Detective,” he says with infinite softness “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She wants to yell. To scream. To throw the stupid golden plate on the ground and stamp in the carefully arranged offering. But she’s spent and all she can afford to think about is Trixie. For the moment she’s more selfish than selfless, and is not proud of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But she asks the question anyway. “Is there a way to save them?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have a claim. They made their own deal to get here. Someone else must get them out. You do, however, still need to eat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes a golden fork and spears a piece of chicken, offering it to her. Chloe shakes her head, she’s no longer in the mood to eat, not after that display.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I never asked,” Chloe says. “About the stab wound. Are you going to be okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She can still see the black mark the unicorn left, but it does look better from when she first saw it. It’s more of a scab than a festering pit</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The water helped,” he replies. “But you're avoiding the issue at hand, Detective.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe grimaces. “I’m just not feeling it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer frowns. “Would it help matters if I distracted you with a story?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What, a Faerie telling me Faerietales?” She laughs without mirth. “Sure, why not.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighs. Fangs show at the edges of his lips, and Chloe interprets this as exasperation. He’s not baring his teeth at her on purpose; he just can’t help it. Or at least she hopes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was once radiant, you know,” Lucifer begins. “My Glamour didn’t used to be a lie. I was the toast of the town. The bees knees, as you humans say.” He frowns a little and brings the fork to her mouth. Chloe takes a bite. The chicken is so delicious she could almost cry on the spot. “Ah, that’s it Detective. That’s it, eat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She chews quickly, and he quickly offers her another piece. “I was also arrogant, and admittedly a bit pretentious.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, you?” Chloe smirks. “Impossible.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your sarcasm is noted, darling.” The dusting of feathers around his neck fluff a little in mock offense. “As I was saying, I might have implied that the High King of Faeryland was a pompous over-controlling tosser, and that others, such as myself, could do a better job. But I didn’t think it would ever come to anything you know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pauses to butter an oatcake and slides it to her lips with his fingers. Face warm, she eats it delicately from his claws.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The next thing I know, he takes everything I have of value and twists it against me. My beauty turns into hideous power, and my power turns into my prison. The cherry on top of the bloody shit sundae? Exile. I’m no longer welcome to dance in the halls of this or any other court. Save, of course, for special occasions like this one, where I am at a disadvantage.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe swallows, and reaches for a glass. Her throat is suddenly dry. The Erlking knocks her hand away gently, grabs it himself, and pours the wine. He doesn’t chide her, but the wiggle of his brow implies that she should know better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I starved more nights than not. I stole what favors I could garner, from friends and foes alike. And nothing could fill the holes in my heart or in my belly. The curse made sure of that. I’m not proud of what I did to survive, nor am I ashamed. I wandered, a slavering creature through hill and dale. Mountain and desert. I trafficked in blood, in souls, in debts and in debtors. I was pitiable, yet no one showed me pity.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes bore into hers, then drift to her nose, her lips, and then lower, to the table, as if ashamed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I cannot rightly say what brought me to your doorstep. Fate, maybe. At first, I thought the food was left by the child. Your urchin. Or some sort of religious altar. But then I saw your face, placing the spread at the very edge of your deck. Blue eyes, the color of open sky, glued to the woods. And I decided, well, there was no place I would rather be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The gathered Fae are not subtle. They eat, they drink, they cavort, but even now they stare. Lucifer seems to gather some courage, because he takes her jaw into a gentle palm, compelling her to look at him instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I might be the fearsome Erlking, taker of lost souls and shepherd of the trees. But it is you who holds the power here, and I am ever at your mercy.” The Erlking brings the wine to her lips. It’s sweet, cool, and tastes of peonies. “Even if you don’t quite remember it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Erlking caresses her cheek as he pulls the glass away. The stem of it rings against the tabletop. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A sudden, uneasy feeling slides inside her rib cage. Every déjà vu moment, every passing instance of familiarity comes home to roost. Puzzle pieces sliding impossibly in place</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was the man of her dreams. And they were real. All the dream sex was absolutely real.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Have we met before?’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘I could swear I’ve seen you naked.’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Have we had sex?’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was literally outright telling her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’ve already made a meal of each other's bodies, and supped at a more intimate table. Over, and over, and over again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A horrible blush chews at her cheeks. “We’ve been having sex all this time?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She doesn’t mean for it to sound the way it does. Confused. Worried. Frightened. Accusatory.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer snatches his hand back, tipping and shattering the wineglass. “Am I that repulsive?” His voice waivers. “Do I disgust you?”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lucifer—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He cuts her off. “I suppose that’s the way of faerie food. Humans never know if they’re biting into a fresh or rotting apple.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not like that.” She grabs the edge of his sleeve. “You know it’s not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then what is it like, Chloe, hm? Tell me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only she can’t. Her lungs can’t seem to catch up to the words she wants to say. The words she needs to. She’s left gasping like a fish drowning in air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see.” He grimaces, shaking off her grasp. The gorgeous plate spills into the grass— and the moment, like the food, is spoiled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer abruptly gets to his feet and leaves.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>___________________________________</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Part IV.</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>The Erlking rides and partakes of flesh</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a single, half submerged subway car in the middle of a nearby pond. The abandoned vehicle stands on its end like a slanted monolith. Pinkish honeysuckle drips from a broken wheel, dragging itself into the water. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Erlking, once fearsome and proud, sits at the bank and glares at the train car as if it had mortally offended him</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe knows Lucifer can hear her approach. How could he not with those pointed ears? He doesn’t look up to acknowledge her presence. Instead, his long, taloned feet mince the grass beneath his feet. She’s reminded of a dark eagle, or maybe great black owl, worrying a dead mouse between its claws. The beastly footprints from before make sense in retrospect. Lucifer was the predator following them all along. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” she says, sitting beside him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He still doesn’t look at her. “Detective.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sweet music of the orchestra fades in and out. There’s the tinkling of far off bells and laughter, some couples kissing amorously amongst the trees, dancers languid in their various circles. But, for the most part, they are alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To answer your question, no, you don’t disgust me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughs bitterly at that. The pair of wings on his back rattle and hiss like cicadas.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then is it fear, perhaps?” The points of his teeth gleam sharp in the moonlight. “I suppose it must be quite the fright to know you’ve been sleeping with a monster all this time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just different; what you look like. You’re not a monster.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He seems to mull her statement over, chewing on it like old taffy. “I sometimes forget humans can lie. How convenient then, that I cannot”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lucifer, I’m telling you the truth.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And so am I. Obviously. If I’m not a monster, then I’m not quite sure what could ever meet your definition.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A long, iridescent fluke slides through the water in front of them and then disappears.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe knows him. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. Their relationship might have been scrawled in the shape of dreams, but he's been courting her for months. He's provided for her, and is risking himself on her behalf. Her daughter’s behalf. And, he’s even funny, in a way. There is goodness there. Redemption. What more could she want? Or need? She studies his great terrible form. He's really not so fearsome as he had first appeared. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What you look like doesn’t change how I feel about you, Lucifer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And how do you feel?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The words erupt from her chest, unfurling like flowers before she can suck them back in. Thorny and perennial. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Like I love you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her admission feels like a shove. She's falling from a skyscraper. Jumping before figuring out exactly where she will land and her heart is screaming itself breathless. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” he says so softly that the set of his features crumble. “No. I beg you, please don’t lie to me. Not about this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe catches his great, falling face in her hands. Yes, his eyes are brimstone. Yes, his visage is corpse-like. And there’s horns, and arms, and wings, and hooked, crooked feet. He has claws, and teeth, and a tail from the looks of it—long and furred and looping. The mottled appendage thumps behind him in the grass, but he is hers, she’s decided. He has been hers long before she knew his face or his name.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then tell me I don’t love you,” Chloe says gently. “But I don’t think Faeries can lie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer’s jaw works, choking for a full minute before falling silent. “I can’t.” He looks stunned. And a little like he’s about to cry. A once horrible face set with the softness of tears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe smiles and captures his mouth with her own. The texture of his tongue is different, but he tastes familiar. The exact same, actually. Of warm tea, and sugar cubes. Of cheese rinds, grapes and whiskey. Of cream, and of honey. He sighs into it, almost melting into her arms. His many limbs twine themselves around her, and she presses him into the lawn—not caring in the least if anyone could see.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Detective,” he hums against her neck. “Oh, Chloe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She reaches into his long peacoat, picks at his vest, undoing the ties and golden buttons. Her hands slide beneath his linen shirt, caressing the taut muscles of his abdomen, his rib cage, and press against his breastbone. Right above his heart. His pulse flutters so fast beneath her fingertips, that it feels like a caged bird trying to escape.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want to see you.” She unties the back of her dress, modesty forgotten. “All of you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At this, he finally smiles, Lucifer-ish and wicked. “Here? Are you quite certain?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She considers it a moment, feeling the burning eyes of those around her. The vulnerability. Her exposure. But it’s not like she knows these people. These creatures. It’s not like they have cell phone cameras. And it’s not like she isn’t being held by the fiercest of them all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want them to see,” Chloe all but growls. “I want them to know who I take into my bed, and who exactly I love. No more whispers, Lucifer. No more shame.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kinky,” Lucifer leers. “I never would have guessed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He unbuttons his trousers and shimmies a little, revealing his muscular hips, and a length that could almost be considered human. He is big, but the point tapers. His member sits flushed, swollen and pink against the pale skin of his thighs. His balls, like he said, are quite average.  What stops her short though, enough to fumble against his skin, is his happy trail. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From belly button to base is a cascade of short, iridescent </span>
  <em>
    <span>feathers</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe has to kiss him full on the mouth. Because it’s either that or rudely laughing in his face—which of course, is not great pre-sex ediquette.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nudges her nose aside. “What’s so amusing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your cock has feathers.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer looks half endeared, half offended. “I’m to understand no self respecting rooster could be without.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm. And if you’re a rooster what does that make me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, isn’t it obvious, Detective?” He reaches between her legs, a gentle caress of claws and knuckles. “The Sun.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe laughs this time, riotous and bright. The Erlking smiles back. His pupils are blown wide, leaving just the smallest ring of fire around the iris. Adoration, as it turns out, looks good on him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His brow waggles. “Will you make my cock crow?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe rolls her eyes and huffs. With one hand she grabs his shoulder, and with the other she guides them as she grinds down. He feels only slightly different from muscle memory. Sharper, more visceral, maybe. But her body already knows him well. They've lain like this before. His face might be different, but their union is a home they built together bottle cap by bottle cap. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer’s lungs gust like bellows, his mouth a bit slack, but he doesn’t dare move an inch until she’s ready. His good humor waxes uncertain and awed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This,” she gestures at him, all of him. “Doesn’t matter. Not to me. It really doesn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He snorts, revealing the faintest hint of needle-like teeth. “How could it not?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because I know you, Lucifer. Erlking or not. Devil or not. You’re the same idiot who left flowers on my back doorstep. Who is risking everything to help me get my daughter back.” She tugs gently on a pointed ear. “And besides, it’s actually kind of sexy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he can argue, Chloe begins to move. Her lover hides his face in her neck and his horns slightly scrape her scalp, but his claws are careful. Just a barely there touch along her naked spine. He roils underneath her like a stormy sea, but she presses, and presses. Her knees grind the grass into mud. Chloe wants an imprint there. A stamp. Proof of their slick bodies and the sweetest of defamations. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her hands find their way to his neck. She squeezes, but not quite strangling. His voice rumbles underneath her thumbs, low and humming. She presses against his Adam’s apple and she can feel his mouth curve upwards against her cheek—welcoming. Feral.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, Detective,” he purrs. “Detective. Detective. Detective.” Her nickname vibrates to her wrist bones.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They find a rhythm. They follow the deep bass, the far off lutes and lyres. Turf crumbles between the Erkling’s feet, making deep scratches in the ground and Chloe rips out fistfuls of clover and buttercup. Lucifer’s breath is hot and steady against her neck as he flexes upward to meet her, driving himself impossibly deep. But it's not enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want to hear you, Lucifer,” she growls in his face. “Let me hear you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Detective—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe bites down on the skin just behind his jaw and he screams. It’s a high whispery sound, like half a whistle and half a groan. He squeals like an old tree, dry and creaking in the wind, an Elk call muffled by thin lips and locked teeth. He flips them both over, and it’s him, rutting her into the grass, sliding her into mud. Fucking her into the deep imprint his body left. His body is a massive, undulating thing. He fills her completely, and leaves her own throat gasping for air. It's all Chloe can do to roll her hips into it, letting the pleasure and pressure build and build and build.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She kisses skin, chitin, and feathers; nips gently on the bladed points of his ears. Laves both nipples just to make sure he </span>
  <em>
    <span>aches.</span>
  </em>
  <span> There are so, so many textures to explore—but her brain is all too quickly consumed by endless static. Her pleasure quickly escalates past the point of coherent thought. They both are creatures drowning in the throes of desperation. She sounds just as inhuman as her lover. A roaring thing ready to explode. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her stamina is just about to give.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe grabs his face roughly and bucks, one final time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And oh, The Erlking is no longer so fearsome.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer, the monster, the Faerie, the man—breaks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>___________________________________</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After riding Lucifer to climax, Chloe doesn’t doze for long. She worries a little. She worries for Trixie. She worries that when they return hundreds of years will have passed and everyone she’s ever known has long been dead. Her heart plods on and on like a racehorse on a betting track, because it would be everything her Grandma worried about and more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if Lucifer can feel her anxiety, one of his hands comes up to circle her neck, with a thumb gently rubbing her jugular. His great horns provide a tangled shade from the full moon, and the remainder of his arms wrap around her in a makeshift lattice. The Erlking is trying to make her feel safe in this unknown country, and the gesture isn’t lost on her. If only her gibbering lizard hindbrain would cooperate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll get your urchin back,” Lucifer says, his voice is a low and comforting rumble. “I gave you my word. Once the revel concludes, we will have a formal audience.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe nods and sighs into his shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The last dregs of the revel are beginning to spill out, like wine from a glass. The rising sun washes the sky with the very faintest of pinks, and an ever more somber tone paints the fading crowds. Banquet tables continue to groan impossibly with goblets and roasted birds, raw flesh and entrails, but the visitors are less frequent. Delicacies are left unattended. Even the Faerie band still plays, but it’s agonizingly low and slow. Those who are left move with a more languid grace.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a faun slow grinding his hips against a tree about fifty yards away, for example. Two dryads are having a naked spash fight on the water bank, but it’s more of a sleepy naked wrestling match. A trio of naked pixies dance into view, in whispy silks and naked skin, more fucking than waltzing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe has to admit that even if they are all uncanny, they are equally as beautiful. Shiny fur, glistening scales, shimmery wings, and teardrop eyes. They have perfect, beautiful breasts that are rounded by moonlight. Teflon smooth flesh glitters with dew and stardust. Every stunning thing in nature is contained within their endless variety.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They are worlds apart from Chloe, who wears the tiger stripes of motherhood and  is beginning to bow under the weight of middle age.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Panic again sets in, and Chloe quickly looks away, embarrassed. Her eyes have feasted and glutted on more than they could chew. Something new and hungrier is swallowing her whole. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Doubt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like this, here and now, it’s hard not to wonder what Lucifer sees in her. He might think himself monstrous, but Chloe is mortal. Weak. Something arguably lesser and worse. She doesn’t belong, and she’s gone in less than a sliver of their lifetimes. There is nothing mythical or legendary about her. She’s only special in the way mortals are. Or seem to be. Filled to the brim with more courage than sense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm. Perhaps it’s time I make my own declaration,” Lucifer muses, catching her gaze. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?” she replies distantly, thinking again of the dancers. Those faerie women could dance, and continue to dance until she died. And not one of them would notice the passing of time or age.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One of Lucifer’s hands travels down her belly, long fingers trailing down and down to the apex of her legs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe of the carnal variety?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe crinkles her nose, suddenly very aware of the Faerie come drying between her thighs and the mortal sweat congealing everywhere else.  “Lucifer, I’m sticky. I need to clean up first.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, what is it you humans say? No time like the present?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Chloe can even register what he means, her back is against the green, and his mouth is smiling at her hip bone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lucifer—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His long tongue unravels between his lips, pointed and dark. Without preamble, or fanfare, he latches his mouth right between her legs. Fangs lightly pinch at sensitive skin, and his tongue is rough, and a bit like a cat’s, but quickly she grows to like it. Love it, even. His many hands spread her open, spread her wide, and hold her firmly in place. Chloe has nowhere to place her hands, save one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucifer grins. “Enjoying my love handles are we?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no, I’m not complaining. Please, touch them as much as you like. I sorely missed the taste of you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His horns are warm and smooth beneath her touch. Soft velvet curls around the base of his tines like moss. Like this, she remembers him with a different face. With hair like rams wool, and neatly trimmed stubble. She’s not sure what she prefers, now that she's tasted him wild and secret. Naked of art and artifice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His great wings come up behind him, open and quaking. Their tips whisper against the clover leaves. Starlight refracts and shatters. Dark, light, purple and green.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The points of his horns scratch lightly on the insides of her thighs and she yanks him closer, grinding. His long tongue laps deep, then deeper. One of his hands skates down the curve of her ass. Another travels to circle her clit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She pulls at him, dictating his pace, not once letting him come up for air. He purrs loud, like a motorcycle engine, not  complaining. He pins her legs down into the mud, just as the breath is torn from her lungs by a wandering digit, long and curling. Her upper body is writhing, bouncing. Fluid. Muscles contort to press him closer. And then, his jaw opens, distending impossibly large. He licks her clean, thorough, his red mouth suckling at her essence. Lucifer could swallow her whole if he wanted. Chloe is certain of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But oh, he takes a vastly different course. He settles. He stills. And he goes soft around the edges. Kissing. Caressing. Lulling her a little, and assuring her he’s not as feral as he looks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He licks at the scratches between her thighs, soothing, purring and nuzzling, like a contented cat. Chloe grips his horns, taken aback. A bit frustrated. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks up at her and grins. His gaze then moves from her eyes to her heaving breasts. “I want them to know who exactly I take into my bed, and who exactly I love,” he says. “So why don’t you tell them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With that he latches to her clit and sucks. Chloe keens, twists her fingers into his antlers and almost blacks out. He lets her ride it out, going over the edge, again, and again, and again. His cock spurts out into the grass, and from his seed springs violets and coriander flowers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And also, cowslips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When it’s finally over Lucifer licks his chops, smiling. He holds her hand as if it was a soft and tiny thing, precious and delicate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do love you, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chloe smiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She knows he cannot lie.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yes, I'm still alive. Consider this a warm-up  for things to come, as rough as it is. Hopefully! And thank you to wollfgang for being an incredible beta. Seriously.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>